


so call me your lover (don't call me your friend)

by notcaycepollard



Series: we don't need to (talk about it) [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Friends With Benefits, M/M, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Resolved Sexual Tension, extremely self-indulgent and teenage pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 05:28:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14927999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: Sebastian knows he’s the one who fucked this up.He should be glad there are no hard feelings—he fucked this up, hefucked this up—but it aches like a bruise that won’t heal, and Sebastian is exactly the kind of idiot that’ll keep poking at it just to make sure it still hurts.





	so call me your lover (don't call me your friend)

Sebastian knows he’s the one who fucked this up.

He knows, he _knows_ , but it seems sometimes like it’s easier to fuck things up than to make it work out. _I missed you_ , Mackie says, and it’s not that Seb didn’t miss him right back, that’s not why Seb flinches. It’s, fuck, it’s just the opposite.

_Yeah_ , he wants to say, _yeah, I missed you so fucking much_ , and it’s too fucking much, what he _wants_ is too much and the wrong kind of too much on top of all that, and all he can do is pull himself back from the brink and try, desperately, to keep things light the way he’s always assumed it was supposed to be.

It’s the wrong thing to say. He knows as soon as he’s said it. Can only pull on his jacket, flee the scene like the coward he is, and it’s sticking in his throat, sharp in his chest. He shouldn’t have— fuck, he _shouldn’t have_ , they’re gonna have to work together again, film after film, and play like it’s fine, like nothing fucking happened at all.

_I’m such a fuckup, man, sorry about it_ , he types out. Deletes it before he can hit send.

 

Mackie seems to do just fine at playing it like nothing happened, anyway; Sebastian feels like he’s a poorly-contained ball of anxiety in human form, but Mackie is just the same. Maybe a little colder, a shade more distant, but nothing anyone would notice if they weren’t overanalyzing every interaction.

Sebastian is absolutely overanalyzing every interaction. Playing it back in his head, knowing he’s doing it, and he just needs to take a deep goddamn breath and let it go. He might have fucked this up but he’s a professional, _they’re_ professionals, and there’s no reason to make it weird. They’re both in Infinity War after all, shooting Avengers 4 and 5 at the same time, and Seb does his best to put it aside, to behave like a normal fucking friend and coworker who’s being paid massive amounts of money to act in this franchise.

Mackie’s just the same with the others, laughing loud at every bad joke Chris makes, flirting idly with Scarlett while they’re waiting for lighting to reset or whatever the fuck else, and it makes Sebastian take these sharp breaths, drink his water and flip his plastic prop knives between his fingertips and tell himself that this is always how Anthony’s been with everyone; Seb’s not special. Mackie still jokes with him, anyway, elbows him in the ribs and messes up his hair, slings his arm around Seb’s shoulders basically every time they’re on set together, and if nothing else that’s a sign that there are no hard feelings.

He should be glad there are no hard feelings—he fucked this up, he _fucked this up—_ but it aches like a bruise that won’t heal, and Sebastian is exactly the kind of idiot that’ll keep poking at it just to make sure it still hurts.

 

Mackie looks at him every so often between takes, this serious and studied expression like he’s looking for something in Sebastian’s face. Seb doesn’t really know what to make of it, brushes it off. Calls his therapist from his trailer, talks around it for long enough that even she gets frustrated with him.

“You’re paying me to help you work yourself out, Sebastian,” she says, the edge in her voice he hasn’t heard since they were working through his coked-up bullshit years and years ago, trying to get him to quit putting shit up his nose instead of facing any minorly uncomfortable emotion. “But you know I can’t do that if you’re not willing to honestly work yourself out.”

“Yeah,” Seb says. Wishes he still smoked. “Yeah, I know.”

He does know, is the thing; knows that he’s gonna have to claw it out, split open his chest and face up to it, but it’s just— it’s too much work, and he’s too tired, too scared, too dug into his own bullshit to go through it all just yet.

 

There’s a couple months between wrapping the sequel and dealing with the Infinity War release junket bullshit, thank _Christ_ , and Sebastian throws himself into work, filming Destroyer and hustling for new roles and doing his best not to fucking think about anything. He’s fully prepared for the press tour to be a particular level of eternal fucking torment—this was how it all fucking started, last time around, _Christ_ , and Mackie hasn’t texted him since they finished filming, has maintained a carefully composed silence all the more noticeable for how they used to talk on the phone all the damn time—and PR pairs them up for interviews again because of course they do, Sebastian and Mackie’s chemistry in interviews is a matter of public comment, no fucking _wonder_ they’d gone down so hard. Seb chews his lip, keeps quiet. And then they’re in between interviews, taking a quick break to check texts and eat a protein bar, call their assistants, whatever, and Mackie pulls him aside, raises an eyebrow.

“This isn’t gonna be a problem, is it?”

“No,” Seb says, tries to follow up with something extremely chill like _why would it be_ and winds up just stuttering a little. “No, it— it’s fine, it’s cool, I promise.” And it _is_ fine, it’s—well, _he’s_ not fine, obviously, but their friendship seems mostly back on track after that. Mackie seems like he’s having fun, anyway, and Winston’s cool, so. That’s something, Seb guesses.

 

He holds it together until the post-release cast party. Drinks too much, gets talked into a couple lines and then a couple shots and then a couple more lines, winds up out on the balcony while Evans rolls up a ridiculously fat blunt. Seb’s found a pack of cigarettes somewhere, is three smokes deep into chain-smoking the whole pack, and when Chris takes the cigarette out of his fingers and replaces it with the blunt, Seb really shouldn’t fuck himself up any more than he already is, but it’s basically a foregone conclusion at this point. It just— he hasn’t felt good for months, not since Anthony put his drink down and said _come here_ and then _I miss you_ and everything in Seb’s body went off like warning bells, and he’s had to hold it together, pretend he isn’t cored through from something he can’t have and couldn’t ask for anyway, and here he is now, neck-deep in bad vodka and good cocaine and smooth Californian weed. His fingertips are going numb and his tongue is thick and he’s given up even trying to make conversation, and it’s _fine_ , it’s all _fine_ , everything feels totally fine because he can’t fucking feel anything at all.

 

Mackie’s probably been on the balcony for hours by the time Seb notices him—his usual hyperfocus for anything to do with Anthony is kinda blurred from the vodka he keeps throwing back, uppers and downers all going sideways—and Seb blinks, tries to focus. Mackie’s closer than he realized, basically right next to him, cigar in his mouth, and it’s like his vision is narrowing in until everyone else disappears into soft focus in the background.

“Anthony,” he says. “You’re here. Have a drink.” Pours a couple of shots, liquor wet on his fingers, and reaches out, pushes one across the table.

“Oh, man,” Mackie says. Glances at Chris. “You’re bad news, kid.” But he takes the shot, throws it back. Watches Seb drink, and it’s enough that Seb fumbles, spills it down the corner of his mouth, running down his jaw. “God,” Mackie murmurs, “you’re a mess,” and reaches out, swipes his thumb over Seb’s chin. The touch burns more than the vodka going down, and Sebastian is way too drunk for this, way too high, it’s all just way too much and he’s gonna say something he regrets like _do you ever think about—_

“Hey,” he says, swallowing it down, smiling very bright, “you wanna do a line with me?”

Mackie makes eye contact, glances at Seb’s mouth, back at his eyes.

“Nah,” he says. “Better not.”

Sebastian licks his lips, watches Mackie’s gaze track back to his mouth, and he wants to get fucked so bad he can’t breathe, feels it prickle under his skin and tighten in the back of his throat.

“You sure?” he asks, tilts his head, and Mackie looks down, draws on his cigar until the tip is glowing, shrugs a little and hands it off to Evans.

“Give us a minute,” he says, and Chris shrugs right back, this expression that says he knows precisely what’s going on and gives exactly zero shits about it.

 

Seb’s sort of drunk enough that he’s stumbling a little, but so is everyone else at this point, and it’s a closed cast party so it’s probably not like there’s gonna be a problem with rogue photos. And anyway Mackie has his hand pressed to the small of Seb’s back, warm through the thin fabric of his shirt, so it’s not exactly like Seb is focusing on the likelihood of leaked cellphone snaps showing up on TMZ right fucking now.

“The fuck do you want,” Mackie says, when they get into a corner of the hallway that has no one else in it right at this moment. Seb closes his eyes, leans against the wall.

“A line, man, I told you— it’s a party, right.”

“Nah, that’s not what you want,” Anthony murmurs. “Is it?”

“Christ,” Seb says. Exhales hard. “ _Christ_ ,” and then he’s slamming his mouth against Mackie’s, a kiss that’s nothing but messily sharp desperation. God, he’s gonna fuck this up all over again, he’s so fucked he can’t feel his face but when Anthony sinks his teeth into his lower lip, grabs Seb’s hips and pulls him in, it’s like he can feel every fucking cell in his body.

“Fuck,” Anthony says, low and hot, “God, Sebastian,” and takes a ragged breath, pulls away, fingers still caught in Seb’s belt loops like he doesn’t know whether he wants to let go just yet.

“Come home with me,” Seb says, his whole body thrumming with it, “my hotel, shit, come on—”

“So, what, you can freak out and pretend this was a mistake again as soon as you’re sober?” Anthony says, quiet and measured and hard, and Seb blinks, feels his breath stutter.

“No,” he says, “that’s not—”

“Come on, Sebastian, we’ve been doing this long enough. Should have left that shit back in the press tour, right? I’m not getting on this ride again.”

“Oh,” Seb says, is all he can get out, and Mackie looks him up and down. Sways in like he’s gonna kiss Seb again, and then leans back, shrugs very final.

“Yeah,” he says, “okay, cool. We’re cool,” and claps Seb on the shoulder, walks away without looking back.

 

That should be the end of it. _Christ_ , it should be the end of it, whatever this mess was to begin with. Seb shouldn’t have started something and then let it go sideways, let it spin out under him, it— he _knows_ what this industry is like, it’s his own fucking fault, and the worst of it is they were friends before they were anything else but he fucked that up along the way, and now they don’t even talk; just radio silence and the burn of something that Seb set alight.

“You okay?” Evans asks the next time they’re in the same city, and Seb shrugs.

“Fine,” he says, because this isn’t Evans’ shit to deal with, and Jenny puts down her fork where she’s eating all of Chris’s carbs off his plate before he notices.

“You’re not fuckin’ _fine_ ,” she says, “Jesus Christ, Stan, go see a therapist already.”

She says it like it’s easy, Seb thinks resentfully; _just go see a therapist_ , as if he hadn’t done that for years already to get over anxiety, depression, the clutching fear of being only human in a goddamn industry that’s forever on the edge of chewing everyone up and spitting them right out, he can’t— what’s he gonna say, anyway. _Let’s talk about my intimacy issues, huh? I’m so afraid of being honest with anyone I can’t even sleep in the same fucking bed. I think I fell in love and then irretrievably fucked it beyond belief, and do you think Marvel would fire me if I came out?_

“Yeah,” he says instead. “Yeah, maybe,” and Jenny rolls her eyes like she’s got his goddamn number.

 

He thinks it’s just gonna go like that, that he’ll poke the bruise every so often until he’s numb to it, and then he’s sitting on his couch three months later, exhausted from weeks of two-hour workouts and no carbs and nothing but boiled chicken and steamed spinach, and he looks out at the rain, the leaves pasted against his window, and thinks: _Jesus Christ you’re being so fucking dumb about this, Sebastian, are you gonna be miserable your whole fucking life? Get over your shit already._

He calls Mackie before he can second-guess it. The line rings a few times, and it’d be only normal if Mackie sent him to voicemail, made him stutter into a recording and regret everything that’s ever come out of his mouth, but Mackie picks up on the next ring.

“Sebastian, hey.”

“I,” Seb says. “Hey, hi. It’s good to hear your voice, man.”

“Yeah,” Mackie says, coolly careful. “Okay. What’s up, Seb?”

“You’re in town next weekend, right? In New York, I mean?”

“Yeah,” Mackie says again. “Meetings with a couple casting agents. New project on the cards, maybe. Why?”

“I’m,” Seb says, “I’m in the city too. At home, I mean. I, uh. Do you want to get dinner while you’re in town?”

“Catching up, huh? As friends? That’s what you want, right?”

_Jesus_ , Sebastian thinks. Hears the bite in Mackie’s voice, and he has to take a breath, brace himself against what he’s about to make himself say.

“No,” he says. “Not— not as friends. I fucked up, okay? I know I— and you don’t have to— it’s just, let me take you out for dinner, okay?”

“You asking me on a date, Sebastian?”

“Yes,” Seb says, exhausted by his own bullshit. “Yeah, Anthony, I’m asking you on a date, Christ. I fucked things up between us, and I want to— I want to try again. To talk about it, at least.”

There’s a long silence at the end of the line. Seb chews his lip until it hurts, finds himself biting the side of his thumbnail like he hasn’t done in years, and then Mackie takes an audible breath.

“Well, shit,” he says. “Fuck, okay. Dinner, huh? I can do that. Saturday work for you? Pick a place, Sebastian, it’s a date.”

“Yeah,” Seb says, breathless. “Yeah, okay. I— yeah. I’ll see you Saturday.”

He hangs up, still breathless. Blinks a couple times. He— _shit_ , he—Christ, he’s gonna try.

It’s terrifying. He’s terrified.

 

He’s no less terrified by Saturday night, is all jittering and sweaty palms like he’s a goddamned teenager going to prom, or something equally immensely stupid. Mackie meets him at the restaurant—a back table in Toro, since he trusts Will to keep the long lenses out and the assholes away—and Seb takes a breath, tries to be chill.

He is extremely not chill. He’s, like, the opposite of chill: vibrating on such a high frequency that it’s kind of a surprise their wine glasses don’t spontaneously shatter after a couple minutes. “Come on, brother,” Anthony says, twenty minutes in, obviously taking pity on him. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but it’s just dinner, man, you realize we’ve known each other for years. Is this something you just do on dates, or what?”

“God,” Seb says. Feels himself turn crimson, heat blooming under his collar. “Fuck, I don’t know, I was trying to be— shit, I dunno, better than I used to be.”

“You’re an idiot,” Mackie says, “god, I don’t know how I agreed to have dinner with such a fucking idiot,” but he says it with a note of genuine affection, and Seb can’t help but feel the knot in his chest begin to unravel.

It’s— god, there was no reason to be this afraid, it’s just _dinner_ , and after a patch of quiet awkwardness while Seb tries to adjust his emotional range downward they settle right back into it, this thing they’ve always had way before they ever fucked around with feelings.

“So,” Seb says. Takes a gulp of wine, clears his throat. “So, I really fucked things sideways, right?”

“Yeah,” Mackie agrees, “you did.” He knocks his knee against Seb’s under the table, gentle like he wants it to soften his words.

“I was afraid,” Seb tells him, “I _am_ afraid, Christ, I’m fucking— I have no idea how to do this, but I—”

“Sebastian, man, you don’t have to—”

“I told my mom,” Seb blurts out. “That I wasn’t straight. I told my mom.” Mackie blinks, and Seb swallows, takes another deep breath. “I don’t want to do this half-assed. I don’t want no strings, I, god, I want you in my bed and I want to wake up with you there, I, fuck, I don’t know, I want you to miss me the way I miss you.”

“Jesus,” Mackie says. Sits back in his chair, closes his eyes, runs his palm over his face. “Christ, Sebastian, that’s a lot.”

“I know, I— sorry, shit, I kind of, uh, I didn’t know what to say,” Seb says, feeling himself flush. “I should have rehearsed beforehand, or something. Written it down.” Jesus, it _is_ a lot, he came on way too intense too soon and now he just kind of wants to hide under the table or something, except that Mackie’s touching his thigh under the table, thumb rubbing idly against the line of his inseam, and when Seb looks up, the corners of his mouth are lifting in a tiny and secretive smile.

“You finally got with the program, huh?” he asks, and Seb opens his mouth, closes it again. “Yeah, you _fucking moron_ , no shit. I thought you were never gonna get over your own bullshit long enough to figure it out.”

“Oh,” Seb breathes. “Oh, fuck.” That just makes Anthony smile wider, soft and warm and amused, and Seb desperately wants to kiss him, to be able to just lean across the table and cup his jaw and pull him into something quiet and sweet. “Come home with me,” he says instead, earnest and a little desperate, and this time it makes Mackie exhale, squeeze Seb’s thigh a little, drag his hand higher.

“Yeah,” he says, “okay, sounds good,” and Seb has to take a breath before he’s got enough higher brain function to deal with settling the bill and calling a cab.

 

It’s not until they’re getting in the door that Sebastian realizes Anthony’s never been in his apartment, that they’ve only ever done this in hotel rooms and short-lease apartments, and it feels like a threshold, feels like they’re finally doing it right.

“Invite me to your house,” he says, impulsive, “the next break we get, or, I dunno, come to Romania with me, you said you wanted to, right?”

“How about we make it to the bedroom first,” Mackie suggests, and yeah, that sounds like a great fucking idea right now, Seb’s probably kind of getting ahead of himself here.

They're tentative at first, cautious like they gotta be careful with each other, before Mackie gets his hands under Seb’s shirt and Seb gets his mouth on Mackie’s throat, and then it’s like Seb’s remembering every version of this they’ve ever had, Seoul and Singapore and LA, all the times he tried too hard to be chill and casual and lowkey about it and just fucked himself up in the process. He’s overthinking it already, god, it’s so _good_ that he could just set this in amber right here, live in this moment forever.

“I thought about you,” Mackie whispers, sliding his fingers into Seb’s underwear and wrapping his hand around Seb’s dick. Strokes him very slow, squeezes a little. “I shouldn’t have, right, you were fucking us both up and I was too tired for that shit, man, but I— it’s just, when it was good, we were really good, you know?”

“Yeah,” Seb agrees, groaning, “fuck, I know,” and he thought about Mackie too, couldn’t not, had him on the mind all the damn time, and now Anthony’s here in his bed, warm skin and callused hands, and Seb gets himself on top, spreads himself out and holds Mackie down with his entire body, watches his eyes darken.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he says, “you got me,” and it’s like he can tell what Seb’s thinking, but then they’re arching against each other, sweat-slick and gasping, and it’s better than that first bump of cocaine, better than the hot-cold burn of a shot thrown back, sparking at the base of Seb’s spine and consuming them both.

 

He doesn’t pull himself away after. Doesn’t have to; it’s his own bed, his own apartment, and he’s not doing that anymore, is pushing through all his anxious hindbrain nonsense telling him to back off, play things cool.

“Do you want to stay?” he asks instead. Touches Mackie’s bare ribs, cautious, and then lays his palm down over Anthony’s sternum to feel the steady pulse of his heart, and then gives in, curls in closer until they’re pressed back in together all the way down to where Seb’s foot is hooked around Mackie’s ankle. “I mean— you don’t have to. You’ve got your hotel, right, it’s cool, I just—”

“You want me to stay?”

“I do,” Seb says, “I really do. Let me make you pancakes in the morning, that kind of shit.”

“Oh, I bet you make nasty-ass pancakes,” Mackie says. Kisses the curve of Seb’s shoulder. “Let me guess, you make them with protein powder and egg whites?”

“Come on,” Seb says, “give me a little credit here. You know I like carbs too much for that.”

“That is true,” Mackie agrees. “Okay, I’ll stay. I’ve got nothing on tomorrow, anyway, I hope you’re prepared for me not to get up until like midday.”

“I think I’ll cope,” Sebastian says, dry, and shit, it’s not like everything is resolved just like that; it’s making him nervous, making his heart race and his brain fling up a million reasons why this is a bad idea, but he’s been wanting it for so long, they’ve been wanting each other so long, maybe the only thing left to do is try having it, and see if that works out any better.

**Author's Note:**

> so I felt real guilty I'd left this series unfinished and apparently guilt is sometimes a motivation to write something, even if it is so self-indulgently pine-filled it might as well be a forest


End file.
